Lucian Harmonides 1

[1] Harmonides the pipe-player once asked Timotheus, who was his teacher. “Tell me, Timotheus, how can I become famous in the art? What must I do to become known to all the Greek world? You have already (and I thank you) taught me the rest of the art: I mean, to tune the pipe accurately, to blow lightly and harmoniously into the mouthpiece, to fit the fingers with easy touch to the full rise and fall of the music, to step in rhythm, to direct the music harmoniously in the direction of the dancers, and to master the peculiarities of each mode—the frenzy of the Phrygian, the excitement of the Lydian, the dignity of the Dorian, the elegance of the Ionian. All this I have learnt from you. But the most important matter—the reason for my interest in the art of pipe-playing—I don’t see how pipe-playing will ever bring me to it. I mean universal fame, being noticed in a crowd, being pointed at, and on putting in an appearance anywhere having everyone turn towards me and say my name, ‘That is Harmonides the outstanding piper’; just as when you too, Timotheus, first left your home in Boeotia and accompanied the Daughter of Pandion and won the victory in the Ajax Mad, playing the music your namesake had written for you, every single person knew your name, Timotheus of Thebes. Whenever you appear there now, everyone flocks round you like birds around an owl. This was my reason for wanting to become a pipe-player and undertaking the hard training. I shouldn’t consider taking up pipe-playing for its own sake without its attendant reputation, and if I were to remain in obscurity. No, not even if I were to be an unknown Marsyas or Olympus. It’s no use, they say, if musical skill is to be secret and kept hidden. But teach me this as well, how to do some good to myself as well as our art and I shall feel doubly grateful to you—for the pipe-playing and, most important of all, for the glory it confers.”

[1] ‘Tell me, Timotheus,’ said Harmonides the flute-player one day to his teacher, ‘tell me how I may win distinction in my art. What can I do to make myself known all over Greece? Everything but this you have taught me. I have a correct ear, thanks to you, and a smooth, even delivery, and have acquired the light touch so essential to the rendering of rapid measures; rhythmical effect, the adaptation of music to dance, the true character of the different moods—exalted Phrygian, joyous Lydian, majestic Dorian, voluptuous Ionic—all these I have mastered with your assistance. But the prime object of my musical aspirations seems out of my reach: I mean popular esteem, distinction, and notoriety; I would have all eyes turn in my direction, all tongues repeat my name: “There goes Harmonides, the great flute-player.” Now when you first came from your home in Boeotia, and performed in the Procne, and won the prize for your rendering of the Ajax Furens, composed by your namesake, there was not a man who did not know the name of Timotheus of Thebes; and in these days you have only to show yourself, and people flock together as birds do at the sight of an owl in daylight. It is for this that I sought to become a flute-player; this was to be the reward of all my toil. The skill without the glory I would not take at a gift, not though I should prove to be a Marsyas or an Olympus in disguise. What is the use of a light that is to be hidden under a bushel? Show me then, Timotheus, how I may avail myself of my powers and of my art. I shall be doubly your debtor: not for my skill alone, but for the glory that skill confers.’